Slashify's Headcanon
by slashify
Summary: Each chapter is a fic that was written about one of my headcanons. There is Mystrade, Johnlock, and some cute brotherly moments between the Holmes boys.
1. Petri Dishes

I don't own these characters.

Summary: Sherlock is stumped by pet names, but as usual he proves that he understands more than people think.

* * *

Sherlock was puzzled the first time John called him sweetheart. He knew he wasn't sweet in an emotional sense, and for about a day he worried that John might be contemplating cannibalism. He watched John closely that whole day, determined that the doctor would not find out if his heart was actually sweet in taste.

When John called him honey, he was slightly more open to it. Honey is, after all, a wondrous substance made by very interesting, industrious creatures. Still, it didn't seem quite right.

The one time John called him baby he voiced his objection out loud. He refused to be likened to an infant, no matter who thought it was an apt description.

Finally, he asked John why he couldn't simply call him by his name. He didn't understand why such endearments were necessary, and in some cases he couldn't fathom how they ever became popular.

John told him that pet names were a way to let someone know they were special to you. A name that was only for you to use was, after all, an intimate and familiar thing.

The first time Sherlock called John 'Petri', John shrugged it off, thinking that Sherlock's mind was on something else, like the times Molly told him he called her John.

However, the more times he used it, the more John realized it was deliberate.

One night, when they were sitting in front of the fireplace having some tea, he asked Sherlock why he called him that.

Sherlock paused and looked at him for a moment before telling him that Petri dishes are useful things, good to have around. Sometimes they can be fragile, and sometimes they hold things that don't seem special at first, but when you look closer, those things can be beautiful.

John quietly stood and placed a soft kiss on Sherlock's hair before taking his hand and leading him to the bedroom.

He would tidy up the cooled tea in the morning.


	2. Mystrade: History

I don't own these characters.

Summary: Mycroft and Greg have a History.

* * *

Mycroft started telling Sherlock that caring is not an advantage when he was sixteen. He lost his virginity to a boy with spiky brown hair and a motorbike who held him afterwards and promised he'd call. He never called.

Years later, when Sherlock was picked up on a drug charge that wouldn't stick, Mycroft looked into those same brown eyes that had watched him write his phone number on a scrap of neon pink paper with shaking hands when he was sixteen. He pretended he didn't remember.

Sometimes he wondered if Gregory Lestrade remembered the scrawny ginger boy he spent a night with at a party and never spoke to again.

* * *

Greg remembers. He remembers spotting the boy from across the room, remembers talking the shy boy into a snog, the rush of heat like nothing Greg had felt before, remembers taking him in someone's parents' bed upstairs.

He remembers holding the boy as he slept, thinking that this could be the start of something.

He remembers watching the boy scrawl his phone number on a scrap of concert flyer Greg had then stuffed into his jeans pocket.

Greg remembers realizing that they hadn't even exchanged last names, and a feeling of hopelessness when he found his jeans in a pile of freshly laundered clothes on his bed. The scrap of paper was illegible, unrecognizable. He wondered if his mum knew what she had just done, but he couldn't exactly tell her. She had been trying to do something nice, picking up and washing his dirty clothes.

He had tried to track 'Mike' down, but none of his friends from the party knew the boy.

When he finally found him, neither of them boys anymore, he was three days away from his wedding anniversary, not a cheater, but the thought of getting a peek underneath that suit was a tempting one.

* * *

By some unspoken agreement, they didn't speak of it. They pretended they had no history. They were such good actors that they each doubted that the other was acting at all, if maybe the other man wasn't the boy from years ago.


	3. How's the Diet, Mycroft?

I don't own the Holmeses, but Allan Porter is my own little demon child.

Summary: Mycroft Holmes never had a weight problem. So why is Sherlock always asking after his diet?

* * *

Mycroft adored Allan Porter, so of course Sherlock couldn't stand the man. He was a pastry chef in an upscale restaurant where Mycroft often took work associates when a meal was required. He was tall, with artfully styled blond hair and hazel eyes. He wore a white chef's jacket which did nothing to hide his athletic build, and which he had adorned with a badge on one shoulder that Mycroft recognized as a football team logo, though he couldn't tell you which team.

Allan introduced himself to Mycroft one night after one of his table mates had sent their complements on his creme brûlée. He locked eyes with the 'minor government official' while he shook his hand. He licked his lips and Mycroft remembers thinking that the man was a minx. They went home with each other's phone numbers.

Two months of expensive dates later, for which Mycroft usually paid, Allan asked Mycroft to be his boyfriend. Mycroft enthusiastically accepted. They spent so much time together that Mycroft's work actually started slipping a little, a civil war almost breaking out in Africa on one notable occasion when Mycroft treated them to a week in Cabo San Lucas and Allan had turned off Mycroft's phone without his knowledge.

During most of their relationship, Sherlock was a brat about it. He had despised Allan Porter from the moment he laid eyes on him.

"He's insufferable, Mycroft! You just can't see it because he makes you cakes, and I think it's high time you went on a diet!"

About a year after they met, Mycroft brought Allan around to a party at the Holmes estate. He had been making his rounds, rubbing elbows with boring people full of even more boring stories, when he glanced over to the bar and saw Sherlock and Allan standing close together. He excused himself from the retelling of a story he'd heard at least seven times and hurried over to the pair to stop what he was certain would be a rather loud fight. When he reached them, however, Sherlock looked flustered and Allan just put his arm around Mycroft and herded him out to the balcony, asking about the koi pond they could see on the grounds.

Mycroft shrugged it off, thinking that Sherlock had been rude and Allan had put him in his place. Hopefully that would be the end of it. But it didn't stop. Each time the three of them attended the same function he would, at some point, find his boyfriend with Sherlock. Each time, the young genius was more flustered than the last.

Finally, Mycroft asked Allan just what it was that he and Sherlock talked about, and why his unflappable brother always seemed so... Flapped... Afterwards.

"Well, Darling, I didn't want to say anything, but I think the boy has a bit of a crush on me. He keeps hinting that I've chosen the wrong Holmes. I think he's just shaken up because he's embarrassed and he doesn't want to get caught flirting with big brother's boyfriend. But it's harmless, Darling! Of course I've told him that I'm very happy with you, but he just won't take the hint, poor dear."

Mycroft was baffled. Sherlock had never shown interest in anyone, romantically or sexually. He had been fairly sure the lad was asexual. And hinting? Flirting? It just didn't sound like Sherlock. His brother hated Allan. Of course schoolboys often bullied the children they really liked, and Sherlock was more like a child in many ways than a young man, but he'd never been anything approaching ordinary. He'd never 'pulled pigtails'. He was bluntly honest, often to the point of making people cry. If he said he disliked Allan, Mycroft was inclined to believe him. Perhaps he was running an experiment, but Mycroft couldn't let him continue.

When Mycroft confronted Sherlock in the manor's practice room, and explained that even for science it was inappropriate to flirt with your brother's intended, Sherlock had huffed indignantly, glared at Mycroft, and stomped off to his room without a word. Well, as much as one could stomp in ballet shoes. Mycroft would have to thank Mummy, again, for putting Sherlock in lessons when they were younger. He played a little tune on the piano, sighed at himself in one of the many floor-to-ceiling mirrors, and went to have tea with a dignitary from... Somewhere.

It was at a party one month later when the truth came out loudly and messily in the manor's ballroom. Mycroft was mingling as usual when he spotted Sherlock cornering Allan by the canapés. Much as he wanted to put a stop to these encounters, he also wanted to hear what his brother thought of as flirting, so he casually took a hiding place within earshot.

"-Dare you tell my brother that I wanted anything to do with you? You know very well that I find you repulsive. I would sooner engage in relations with one of my dissection cadavers."

"Ooh, kinky! Come now Sherlock. Your brother has no complaints about what I do to him. Don't you want to find out how it feels? You think I can make that big brain of yours go blank? Think I can get the only word you remember to be my name until you're screaming it? Think of it as research, if you want. Think of my hands on your-" Sherlock cut Allan off as his hand reached out for the younger boy.

"If you touch me I will kill you slowly, painfully, and no one will ever find your body. That's not a threat, Mr. Porter, it is a fact. I have told you I'm not interested in you in every way known to the English language, as well as a few others, and the only reason I have not told Mycroft of this is because it would break him. For some reason, he thinks you have value, and contrary to popular belief, I do not wish to see him come to harm. Now, I will say again, I am not interested in you, I will never have sex with you, so stop propositioning me!"

"Yes," Mycroft said, stepping out into the open, "I think that would be for the best."

"Mycroft-" Allan started, his eyes wide with surprise. He knew he'd been caught.

"Get out of my sight." Mycroft said loudly, just as the music stopped to fade into another song. Conversations ground to a halt. All eyes were on him as he gently put his hand on Sherlock's arm.

"I'm- I didn't-" Sherlock stuttered.

"Are you okay?" Mycroft asked him, his eyes softer than Sherlock had seen them since he was a very young boy. He nodded. The party picked up again, couples dancing and drinking as security escorted Mr. Allan Porter off of the grounds.

Sherlock and Mycroft didn't speak directly of the man ever again. However, two weeks after the scene at the manor a box was delivered to Mycroft's office bearing the logo from Allan's restaurant. It contained a slice of chocolate cake with blackberry ganache. His phone rang and Sherlock was on the other end.

"How's the diet?"

Mycroft smashed the cake to crumbs and chocolate ooze and sent it back to Allan's restaurant. The message must have been received, because Allan never tried to contact him again. Every time Mycroft was lonely, every time he considered ringing Allan, Sherlock was there.

Later it became a give and take.

"Are you clean, Sherlock?"

"Yes, and how's the diet, Mycroft?"

The Holmes boys often spoke in codes, to each other, to everyone else, but this one, which was always seen as rudeness, resentment, hatred, pettiness, was their favorite of all.


	4. Mycroft's Secret

I don't own these characters.

Summary: Why doesn't Mycroft want Greg to see him naked?

Note: I'm not trying to make light of body image issues, or weight issues. I'm overweight myself, and my intention is not to offend anyone with this. This is merely my headcanon.

* * *

The first time they were naked together, Mycroft made sure that the lights were off. He undressed under the covers, even though Gregory stood before him, naked and glorious, and shameless.

The second time, Mycroft still got naked between the sheets, and Gregory stroked a hand over his stomach in a soothing motion. He wondered if Gregory knew he made those sounds, reassuring humming, murmuring noises.

The third time, Gregory mentioned the dim lighting, the fact that he disrobed under cover.

"Mycroft," he whispered, as if it were a secret shared between them. "You don't have to hide from me, Love. I love your body. You're perfect to me."

"Oh my god! You think I'm fat!"

"What? No, I- I didn't say-"

"You don't have to say it! You think I'm self-conscious about my body because you think that I think I'm fat! I- I know I haven't been in the gym as much lately, but I've been busy! But I'm not fat. I've never been fat..."

"Look, Mycroft, calm down! I just, I, Sherlock's always making comments about your weight, yeah? And, yes, lately, you've gained a little... Extra to love. I just thought you might not be feeling your sexiest. Not because you aren't sexy, because you really are! Only, right now you're making me feel more nervous than- But, but I-"

"Gregory. The reason I haven't wanted to let you see me, really see me, has nothing to do with my body, rather with what's on it."

Greg tilted his head. What was that supposed to mean? He got his answer soon enough, as Mycroft dragged his shirt over his head. Greg had a hard time not laughing, but he managed.

"It was a penance, you see," Mycroft said, running his fingertips over the tattoo across his rib cage, "a form of payback. For Sherlock."

"Payback for what?" Greg asked, running his own fingers down the image on his love's ribs. It was a pink, purple, and blue cupcake, in pastels. The lines were faded enough to suggest it was an older tattoo.

"That, my dear Gregory, is a long story. One which, I think, can wait. Don't you agree?" He muttered, pressing his hips to Greg's.

Greg forgot all about the cupcake tattoo for a few moments... Make that hours...

* * *

When Mycroft was sixteen, Sherlock was nine. Despite the age difference, the boys were close, nearly inseparable. They told each other almost everything. They spent almost every moment together, when Mycroft was home. Sherlock ate what Mycroft ate, drank what he drank, and even tried to imitate the older boy's walk. Mycroft adored Sherlock. His little brother was so intelligent, so naturally inquisitive.

So one afternoon, when Mycroft was out of school, he decided to take Sherlock for ice cream. It was a simple decision, one Mycroft only gave a few second's thought. His brother wanted ice cream, so he would have ice cream. Sherlock sat in the passenger seat, rambling rapid-fire about various toppings, and Mycroft, with his new license in his wallet, sat behind the wheel.

It wasn't Mycroft's fault. Sherlock wouldn't admit that until they were old and grey, but it was the truth. The other car had run a red light, and Mycroft wasn't quite fast enough with the breaks.

Sherlock had been in hospital for weeks.

Mycroft begged his little brother's forgiveness, begged Mummy's forgiveness. He had so thoroughly disappointed them both. Mummy eventually saw reason. Sherlock was alive, after all, and she couldn't stay angry with one of her darling boys for long. Sherlock, however, was another matter.

He demanded special treatment, ordered Mycroft to smuggle things into the room that he wasn't strictly allowed, berated his big brother, scowled at him, told him he hated him, shouted at him.

When Mycroft could take no more, he asked Sherlock to name the elusive thing that would make it all okay again. He told him to name it, and they could go back to how they were, everything would be as it was. And Sherlock named it.

"A permanent mark," he snarled, "to remind you of your ineptitude."

Sherlock quickly sketched an outline on a hospital napkin, and sent Mycroft on his way.

The artist raised an eyebrow at Mycroft over the machine.

"You sure about this?"

Mycroft gave a nod. He would do anything for Sherlock.

When the deed was done, he went back to the hospital. He showed his dear little brother the still-bleeding cupcake tattoo on his ribs. Sherlock smirked, and Mycroft thought that was the end of it.

But Sherlock never fully trusted Mycroft after that. Things didn't, couldn't go back to the way they were before the crash.

Mycroft hasn't driven a car since that day.


End file.
